Her bags are by the door, printed boarding passes sticking out the front pocket. He always insisted on hard copies. ‘What if your battery runs out?’ He’d printed them for her that morning. She’s not really the kind of person that prints passes or plans itineraries or plays out situations before they happen or practices hard conversations in the mirror. However, right at this moment, she realizes why he does that. Practicing in the mirror would’ve avoided the rambling she just did. She could’ve planned out what to say, and more importantly, what not to say. Maybe the tears could’ve come in a little earlier, but it’s too late for that. She said what she needed to say, and now he’s looking at her, his own tears, arriving right on cue when he shakily sat down in that ridiculous green armchair. She looked at it while she waited for his words to formulate. It took him a while for things like this; after all, it’s not like he was prepared.
It was one of those sleek sage green ones – the armchair – it cost more than any furniture should, that he bought in his ‘eclectic mid century modern’ phase. The phase also prompted the purchase of linen shirts that gave him rashes, a beret that made his face look too round, and an empty bank balance way too early in the month to be comfortable. And yet, dinner was always ready, two separate plates customized to the exact macros they needed. It was their version of his and hers towels. He was contradictory like that. Frivolous with money but meticulous about their health and nutrition.
She supposed she had to pick up cooking again, hadn’t done it in years. She used to cook – before him. On quiet evenings after long days, she would chop, stir, sizzle, smash and sear the stress away. The work would produce a tangible reward too, usually in the form of a buttery chicken parmesan. Didn’t have enough protein though, it didn’t fit into their weekly meal schedule.
As a tiny rebellion against the ironclad fist of their kitchen scale, she went to the bar below her work once a week and allowed herself a singular glass of Pinot Noir. Only as an ideological rebellion – it wasn’t enough to get her tipsy and it didn’t leave a stench on her breath.
Same bar where It happened.
She still wasn’t sure why she did it. A glass of wine isn’t a good excuse for this type of thing. Her friends had advised her to bury it and forget it. He was a good man – better than most, she knew that. She should have been grateful, and she was. Mostly. But he deserved the truth, all of it, even the parts that would hurt him, especially those. ‘Because that’s what love meant’, she thought, ‘honesty, even when it cost you everything.’
She had been honest with him, and what was done was done. The new apartment would be ready by the time she got back. The tickets were booked, the bags were packed and breakups were easier to deal with when a pina colada was in your hand and a tan was in progress.
She saw his lower lip tremble as he stood up, struggling to get the words out. He wouldn’t look at her.
“We’ll get through it”, he whispered.
She stared at him, her face blank, knuckles white on the doorknob.
“Thank you”, she said shakily.
Her flight was waiting.
DoubleSpeak 